Nick returns the boy’s handshake. “McMahons are Vassals to the Line of Bors, right? Fitz or Evan brought you in?”
“Yep.” Craig nods and raises his hand to show off a thin, dark orange leather band wrapped around his wrist with a silver coin at the center. “My family’s given five generations of outside service. I’m the first to Page.” His eyes dart to me, then back to Nick. “It’s true, then? You’re claiming your title?”
A slight flush creeps into Nick’s cheeks, but his chin tips up. “It’s true.”
Craig grins. “I’m a senior. Last opportunity to Squire. Didn’t think I’d ever meet you, but…” His eyes drift my way briefly, something sharp behind them. “I’d like to put my hat in your ring. Officially. Got a minute?”
Nick’s jaw clenches, and Whitty smiles into his drink. Craig pulls Nick into a conversation and they drift a few feet away. Greer sees the confusion on my face and leans in close. “You’re brand-new to all this, right?”
I have our agreed-upon story ready to go. “Nick and I met through Early College. He thought I’d be a good fit.”
“Only Nick could get away with plucking somebody outside Vassalage,” they say, and offer an encouraging smile. “He’s probably happy you’re not one of these.” They point their chin discreetly in Craig’s direction.
“One of what?”
“Legendborn acolyte. Fundamentalist Line worshippers. Craig there wants Nick to choose him before the Trials’ve even started. Want some gum? I chew when I’m nervous.” They reach into their bag to fish out a fresh pack. I notice their red ribbon choker and make an educated guess that Greer’s family serves whatever Line Felicity and Russ belong to. When I decline, they keep talking. “The acolytes are a special kinda believer, that’s for sure.”
“You say that like the Order’s a cult.”
“Not far off from one, some days,” Whitty interjects, watching a few more people wander in.
Greer shrugs. “All of it’s a leap of faith when you’re an outsider and don’t have the Sight yet. You seem to be taking it pretty well, Bree.” Greer assesses me with their brown eyes and kind smile before stuffing another piece of gum in their mouth. “How’d you react when Nick told you about Arthur?”
Arthur? Greer says the name without pause or inflection. Like King Arthur is some guy who could walk through the door at any moment. It takes me a few seconds to put together an answer that doesn’t betray the extent of my ignorance. “I was… stunned, of course.”
Nick and Craig make their way back over, with Felicity in tow. She bounces up to us with a clipboard and an infectious smile. She may have been surprised by Nick’s appearance, but now that her event is underway, she’s in her element. I’d bet good money that she’s in student government in the Onceborn world beyond these walls.
The Onceborn world where King Arthur is just a story, not a person. If Arthur is real, are his knights real? The Round Table? The Holy Grail?
When Nick sees my expression, concern ripples across his brow, but Felicity speaks up and draws our attention. “As this year’s recruitment coordinator, I have the pleasure of giving the initiates a tour of the Lodge before we begin. Shall we?” She inclines her head toward the foyer. Another pair of Pages is already waiting.
Whitty and Greer move to follow Felicity, but Nick touches my elbow. He walks me over to the window and out of earshot. “Are you sure you want to do this? It’s not too late—”
“King Arthur is a real person?”
Nick pales, blinks. Blinks again. “Yes, but not in the way you’re thinking.”
“What does that mean?” I nearly shout.
A few Pages across the room turn in our direction, their eyes darting between the two of us. Fitz looks like he’s considering clobbering me. Nick flashes a winning smile but speaks to me through gritted teeth. “Low. Profile.”
“Explain.”
His eyes canvas the room as he talks. “What you think you know of the legend, the versions you’ve read or heard? Almost all of them can be traced back to the Order. They had a hand in most of the stories about Arthur that spread beyond Wales and a pen in every text from Geoffrey of Monmouth to Tennyson. Vassal clerics, writers, archivists worked on misinformation campaigns to keep Onceborns from the truth. This is what I mean by ‘bad idea.’ The other sponsors have had way more than ten minutes to prep their Pages—”
“Stop.” I sway on my feet, still reeling from lies and truths. “This is happening. I don’t care if it’s all real.”
“Page Matthews!” Felicity calls from the doorway.
“Be right there!” I wave, a false smile on my lips.
I start in her direction, but Nick steps in my path. “Legends are dangerous, Bree. Don’t underestimate them.”
* * *
The group is already halfway up the curved staircase and finishing introductions by the time I reach them.
“There are common spaces and private residents’ rooms on the second floor,” Felicity is saying. Her red curls sway behind her as she walks backward up the stairs with ease. “We’ve also got a theater room with enough seating for twelve and a wet bar.” While Felicity leads us across the balcony and down the hall, I study the other initiates.
All told there are five new Pages: Greer, Whitty, me, and two other boys named Vaughn and Lewis. Vaughn, Fitz’s Page, is as tall as Nick, but so broad across the chest and biceps that the buttons of his pale blue dress shirt look liable to pop. Lewis, Felicity’s Page, is the opposite: small-framed, thin, and a little green around the gills.
When we reach the end of the hallway, Felicity shoves open a pair of heavy doors. “And here’s the library.”
Rows of bookshelves are filled with great tomes bound in worn browns and blues and green leather. Solemn, heavy crimson curtains drape windows that stretch up into a Gothic arch. One side of the room holds rectangular study tables with green-shaded banker’s lamps. On the other side, three leather couches face a fireplace and tall mantel.
I float against the back wall alongside Greer, half listening to Felicity, who is now listing the many perks that Order of the Round Table members receive on campus. She’s so bubbly and welcoming that I can’t quite imagine her hunting a demon. There are portraits here, too. A floor-length oil painting of a knight on horseback hangs between two windows. Green-and-black gore runs down the center of the blade he brandishes, and his bright, cyan-blue eyes glitter beneath a medieval helmet.
A waist-high glass display case sits on a table in the back corner. It holds tattered, delicate-looking journals and small artifacts made of stone and silver. Nothing seems particularly remarkable about the objects until I see— “What the hell are those?” I blurt. Beside me, Greer gasps.
Felicity and the others walk over to the case to examine what I’ve found: a chained pair of dented, silver bands resting on a black velvet stand. The info card beneath them reads: MERLIN JACKSON’S MANACLES. SALEM, MASSACHUSETTS. 1692.
“Oh,” Felicity says, her bright demeanor faltering. “Those are, er, handcuffs. That Merlins can enchant with aether to restrain individuals.”